Tan Lines
by DearLadyDisdain
Summary: Pepper laments her skin for burning easily and leaving an unwanted tan line, courtesy of Tony Stark


This is my edited version after re-reading it. Essentially the same, but updated. Enjoy and expect one more chapter to follow.

* * *

Let's get one thing straight here; I, Pepper Potts, do not tan, I burn. My burns just become tan after a week or two.

This makes sense, considering I'm a fair-skinned redhead, but this fact is highly important regarding the story of what created the most embarrassing mark I've ever had on my body.

Or, more like _who_ created the most embarrassing mark I've ever had on my body.

On a hot summer morning in Malibu, I apply the SPF 75 like my life depends on it. The thing is, I could have SPF 1 all over and I would stay the same shade of white that I am now. But the moment I forget about sunscreen, I turn into an overgrown lobster.

It sucks.

I'm also out of my "Professional Personal Assistant" clothes and wearing shorts, a tank top, and Versace sunglasses (birthday present courtesy of Tony). If I'm going to (eventually) tan, I'm going to make as much skin available to the sun without getting comments from Tony.

This is the first interview he's given since That Press Conference (I don't even name it anymore), and Tony just _begged_ me to be there (moral support my ass). So, that is what led me into this predicament. Tony's stupidly cute puppy eyes are what have me sitting next to him on a lounge chair on one of his many balconies, talking to a woman from _The New York Times Magazine_. SHIELD cleared her, and we're talking like old friends, but there's a problem.

For the entire interview (lasting almost four hours), Tony has his hand on my right knee. I'm not exactly sure what it's doing there, but it's there. In the first hour, the interviewer keeps stealing quick glances at my leg and I wonder if she is making notes about where his hands are. Mental note to look at the interview before it goes to print.

She asks me a couple of questions and by the second hour, I barely even register that his hand is on my leg. It's warm enough that it feels like the dry LA heat, but not sweaty enough that it feels like a dog is slobbering on my knee. Into the third hour, I resume using my Blackberry and scheduling Tony's life while Tony answers awkward questions about Afghanistan, Iron Man, and the like. I've heard the story from Tony before, so I am (understandably) ignoring their conversation.

Hours after I've sent Ms. New York Magazine on her merry way, I continue doing regular work; only I'm still wearing the shorts.

Tony notices. He also does not refrain from telling me that he notices.

But that isn't even the worst of it. Everything hits me when I wake up in my apartment the next morning. After I get out of my post-work out shower, I notice something. Two things, actually.

One, I am burned. Badly. There's a distinct outline where my shorts end, where the neck and sleeves of my shirt were, and where my sunglasses covered my eyes. I hurt. A lot.

Two, There's another outline. On my knee. In the shape of a handprint.

I dress and run to the computer. How could this have happened? I applied sunscreen everywhere, how could I be burned? I Google "sunscreen facts." Apparently, you have to apply it every two hours to continue being protected because the chemicals break down. I curse the sun, hands, my pale complexion, and Tony Stark. It may be six in the morning, but it's already 70 degrees outside. I can't wear pants to cover it. I would die. I'm stuck with my knee-length skirts and a curious shape poking out beneath my hemline. What a great day.

I really hope Tony is too busy to notice. Maybe if I act normal about everything, I can finish work and slip out early to the drug store to get some sunless tanner to make it look a little less, well, white.

My hopes were not answered. As I went to the basement to give him his morning coffee, he looked up from whatever car he was working on, saw my leg, and did what I had tried to prevent him from doing for more than five years.

He roughly (and quickly) lifts my skirt to get a better look at the handprint.

Not only am I mortified to have a handprint on my right knee, but the better part of me would really like to believe that Tony's curiosity is the only reason he has for lifting my skirt. That better part of me also has a crush on Tony, so it is as equally mortified as the rest of me, resulting in one very uncomfortable Pepper Potts.

We're both silent for a moment, and then he laughs. Really hard.

I stand in front of him for at least three minutes while he sits cross-legged at my feet laughing hysterically. When he finally calms down, he manages to say, "Now you really are my territory."

I raise an eyebrow while managing to glare. It's a look that I'm sure only I have mastered. "Oh, really now?" I ask – obviously not pleased.

He elaborates. "I left my mark, now you're mine."

My eyebrow stays up. "Then thank heaven for bronzing lotion. Was this your idea of a joke to play on me for your interview?"

Tony really sobers up now. "No. I just wanted to show the reporter that while I might be reckless in some areas of my life -" I coughed loudly. "… I am protective of the people that I care about," he finished.

I smiled a little bit. "That's sweet, but I would prefer in the future that any sign of protectiveness does not leave a mark on my body."

Tony sipped his coffee and went back to work. "Beggars can't be choosers, Potts."

Three days (and many applications of bronzing lotion) later, a copy of the interview appears in my stack of things to sort through. I am to look over it and take out anything that shouldn't be there.

So much for the days of hard reporting.

Everything seems fine, but the introduction has a sentence where she mentions that his hand is resting on my knee and speculates as to what that could mean. She also mentions that it stays there for the whole time. I put a line through it and send it back. The interview goes to print a month later, and we're sent a complimentary copy of the magazine. I hand it to him before he heads downstairs and he flicks through it. "It's pretty standard, but did she really not mention the leg thing?"

"I had her redact it," I say casually as I start up my computer.

He looks put-out, but says nothing. He sits down and reads the full article on the opposite side of the couch where I am, responding to e-mails. He's silent for the entire time he's reading, and stays that way until he tosses the magazine back onto the coffee table and says, "Any reason for the removal apart from the obvious?"

I don't even bother to look up. "I have the right to take out what I don't feel comfortable going to print." He snorts. I look up and say, "Well, would you rather not have a PA and do all of this work yourself?"

He has no response. I continue to reply to and delete e-mails as he heads for his workshop, the Arc Reactor glowing peacefully. He turns before descending the stairs and says, "My hand does look rather nice on your thigh though, Miss Potts."

"That will be all, Mr. Stark."

Truth be told, I liked it there too.

* * *

Cute? Fluffy? Funny? Let me know.


End file.
